


Forever (in Ink)

by Isidore



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Fluff, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Multi, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-22 13:13:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13764918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isidore/pseuds/Isidore
Summary: "For as long as d’Artagnan can remember they have been there, scrawled into his skin in black. He’s always known he was different, that he was odd, not right. They cursed him, printed against his skin like a brand that said sinner. It didn’t matter that he’d never even seen the faces that belonged to the names, didn’t matter that he’d been to church, done his chores, prayed for forgiveness every single night since he knew how."A soulmate AU, interwoven between the events of  'Friends and Enemies'.12/02/19: *ON HOLD* (but will be finished)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> This is pretty much a self indulgent angsty soulmate fic, so I am playing fast and loose with the rules here. It is entirely unbetaed. All mistakes are mine.
> 
> Let me know what you think! If people like this I may find the motivation to post another part (and maybe write a fluffy end).

For as long as d’Artagnan can remember they have been there, scrawled into his skin in black. He’s always known he was different, that he was odd, not right.

His parents were loving, he would say when anyone asked. They loved him and they loved each other, but perhaps that was the problem.

When his mother died and her name faded on his father’s skin, for the first time he felt loss, real and deep and all consuming. When his mother died, something in his father died too. When his mother died, everything inside him ripped open. For three years he was raw with grief, silent with anger and self-loathing enough to want to bring his internal pain to the surface.

He blamed the names, his _soulmates_. It was all their fault. They cursed him, printed against his skin like a brand that said _sinner_. It didn’t matter that he’d never even seen the faces that belonged to the names, didn’t matter that he’d been to church, done his chores, prayed for forgiveness every single night since he knew how.

He tried to carve them out, tried to build layers of scars as armour.

He was only fifteen.

When he travels to Paris, years later, he does it with a light heart. His father is here, they are building a better life. When he travels to Paris, the torturous ache of a love that could never be is lighter and easier than it has ever been in his life. When he travels to Paris, it’s been ten years since his mother’s last breath, and his father finally wears her name with love and pride. 

Everything comes crashing down in an instant.

His father dies in the mud and the rain, blood soaking through his fingers, and he hears a word, a name, that changes his life forever.

“Athos. Athos.”

He knows the name. Of course he knows the name. When a word has been branded on your skin for as long as you can remember, it becomes intrenched in your brain.

The word burns through him.

The emotions come fast and hot, spilling over and around each other until he can’t make sense of them anymore. Love, pain, guilt, rage.

His father is dead.

His mother is dead.

He’s alone on the outskirts of Paris.

He has nowhere to go.

He has no-one.

But he knows who killed his father.

Then there’s a woman, Milady, who looks at him with eyes that scream of sin and he can’t help but fall into bed with her, even when it feels wrong. She doesn’t ask why he keeps his forearms bound and she never sees his back, even as she marks it with her nails. He, in return, doesn’t ask why he can’t see a name on her body.

Everyone has their secrets.

There’s a murder, a scapegoat, a chase, a kiss, a fall, and he ends up shirtless with bruised ribs, struggling to breathe, lying in an unknown bed. His first reaction is violent, lashing out to grab at the woman who’s tending to him. But he notices that his arms are still bound and relaxes slightly. She gives no indication that she saw his back, even if her eyes look particularly sad when he tells her.

“Athos killed my father, Constance. That’s why I must face him.” But it could just be pity, he tells himself. “I’m d’Artagnan. Please think kindly of my name, if you think of it at all.”

He pretends he doesn’t notice the pain in her eyes at the mention of his name. He pretends he doesn’t realise the weight of what he said. He pretends he doesn’t notice when she watches him leave.

“I’m looking for Athos.”

He doesn’t expect it to be more painful, when he sees the man. When the mans blue eyes latch onto his own and he can see the years spread out in them.

“Prepare to fight, one of us dies here.”

He doesn’t expect it to be more painful when they cross blades, and every clash feels like it’s tearing through his heart.

He doesn’t expect it to be more painful when he’s pressed against the man, chest to chest, those beautiful blue eyes boring into his, the raw display of power burning through him.

“Don’t make me kill you over a mistake.”

He can feel his pulse thrumming under the names on his skin. He flings his knife, almost shaking with emotion, but his aim is true.

“And _that_ could have been your back.” He picks up his sword, grits his teeth and sets his shoulders. “Now _fight_ me or die on your knees. I don’t care which.”

When his forced back against the stairs, the cold metal of their blades at his throat and their gazes burning on his skin, that when he _knows_. He just _knows_. And it feels like dying.

God, he wants it to just end. 

But his rage over his father keeps him going, keeps him fighting. Lets him follow Aramis and Porthos even when everything he has left in him is screaming to get away.

When it’s all over, when he has the blood of a murderer on his hands, and faces to the names, he’s done. He’s played his part, smiled as Athos was released. He does not believes an innocent man should die, and when he watches them, he’s happy that he leaves them together.

But all he wants to do now is leave. He sits on the straw mattress in the quiet room, and he can feel exhaustion rippling through him.

Slowly, very slowly, he unbinds the leather from his arms, shucks his shirt, letting them crumple to the floor. He traces the names with his fingers, feels the ridges of the scars, and thinks of the men he’s met, these wild beautiful men who have each other.

He can’t find a place for himself within them.

He can’t see them needing him.

He can’t live with a sin like the one of betraying his mother.

But that’s okay.

He cards a hand through his hair and lets his guards slip, smiling with the relief, and thats when he hears her.

“Oh.” There small exhalation of breath.

He whips around, comes face to face with a wide-eyed Constance, her face drained of blood. If there was room for thought in his mind then, he might have been embarrassed about his state of undress. If he had room for anything in his mind but — _no_.

Constance flushes and turns her head away. “Pardon, monsieur. I didn’t realise you were getting dressed.” she turns to go, but he grabs her arm, his blood pounding in his ears.

“Wait.” His voices is rough, low, desperate. _She’s knows. Oh God she knows. It’s going to happen again. What has he done? What has he done? Everything is lost. He’s lost everything._ He tries to gather up the shreds of his composure. “How much did you see?”

She looks back and him and tears are welling in her eyes. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Charles.”

The breath in his lungs leaves him in a huff, and he feels dizzy, lightheaded. His grip slips off her arm and he stumbles backwards, slumping on his bed. The room feels like it’s swimming around him, a ringing in his ears.

 _His name. He never told her his name. She knows his name. One of_ them _has his name._

“Charles.” Constance’s voice sounds like it’s coming from far away. “D’Artagnan.”

He can smell blood, hear the crack of a whip. Voices, dredged up from long ago are all too loud in his ears. _You’re a freak. You’re a sinner. You’re going to hell._

He digs his fingernails into his palms and slowly pulls himself back to the present. The room is quiet again, Constance kneeling before him, a stricken look on her face. 

“I’m so sorry.” She whispers, fidgeting with her hands. “I…”

“It was my mistake.” D’Artagnan says slowly. He’s still trying to pull himself back together. He picks the strips of leather up form the floor, the hide familiar and worn under his hands. He methodically starts winding it around his forearms, putting the secret back where it belongs, buried deep where no-one can see it. As the leather covers the words on his forearms, he can breathe easier.

“Do they know?” She says softly. He looks up at her, meets her watery brown eyes.

“They can _never_ know. They will never know.”

“But…” She starts. “Your name…”

He smiles, and it feels raw and wrong. “They don’t know my first name. They’ll forget me soon enough, in any case.”

“What?” She whispers, confusion written in fine lines across her features.

D’Artagnan grabs his white linen shirt from onto his bed and pulls it over his head gingerly, straightening the collar to hide the secret properly. “I’m going. You won’t see me again.”

“Charles.”

“Please don’t call me that.” He adds softly. “I’d ask you not to turn me in.” He says and stands, grabbing his belt up from the bed and fastening it roughly around his hips. “Or at least give me a head start, I promise I’ll be of no more trouble to you.”

“Turn you in? What on earth are you talking about?” Finally her confusion gets through to him and he looks at her, shirt slipping off one shoulder.

“You saw the name.” He says carefully.

“I saw the names, yes.” She says clearly. “Although, I must admit slight confusion as to what the hell you think you’re doing.” She plants her hands firmly on her hips.

“I don’t understand.” He says. “You’re not…?”

“Char— D’artagnan, sit down.” She says quietly. Looking utterly mystified, he does so slowly, wary. “In Paris, people are more open. They’re more…accepting.”

“What?” Disbelief makes his voice weak.

She smiles weakly. “Stay in Paris, d’Artagnan. Give it a chance.”

“I’ll be _lynched_ if they find out.” He says angrily. “My neck is on the line here.”

Understanding dawns on her face, made bitter by pity. “Oh.” She whispers. “In Gascony they didn’t… You will not be lynched.” She says firmly. “ _They_ would never let that happen.”

He looks at her, and for the first time in ten years, tears fill his eyes. “Gascony is a very different place, madame.” He stands again, his walls slamming back into place. “They don’t need me and they will never find out.” 

“This is not a cross you have to bear, d’Artagnan.” She grabs at him. “Paris is not what you think it is. You can have a future here.”

“How can I have a future anywhere?” He asks softly. “How can I? I’m marked as a freak.” There’s a part of his mind that’s still screaming. He has no idea why he’s trusting this woman, that he barely knows. But she’s kind and looks at him without hate. And he’s weak for people that accept him.

“Not in Paris.” She tries to gather her words, tries to get through to him. She cannot let him slip through her fingers. “I don’t know what Gascony is like, but in Paris, people can be open-minded. People aren’t judgmental, everyone keeps to themselves and minds their own business.”

“Please, don’t lie to me.” D’Artagnan whispers.

“How much hurt has been caused to you?” She lets her grip trail to the inside of his forearm. “How much pain have their names caused you?”

He just looks at her, with wide dark eyes.

Somehow, she convinces him to stay, and that night he goes back down to the garrison with his heart in his throat, strides up the stairs and into the Musketeer Captain’s office.

“I want—“ The words catch in his throat. “I want to become a Musketeer.”

Treville looks up at him, face worn with years of lines, heavy with experience. “D’Artagnan, a Musketeer’s commission is not an honour I can bestow.”

“I know.” D’Artagnan says. “But I…” He takes a deep breath, steals his resolve. _Could this have a happy ending?_ “I would like your permission to train with the Musketeers.”

“I can’t pay you.” Treville warns. “You will have to earn a commission from the King.”

“I am aware, sir.”

“You have another source of income?”

“Yes sir.”

“Is there anything I should know about your relationship with Athos, Porthos and Aramis?”

“Excuse me sir?” _Did they know? They couldn’t know._

Treville looks at him piercingly. “I won’t pry into your private life, d’Artagnan. That is none of my business. But as soon as it affects your service or that of my best soldiers, be aware that I will not allow my men to be hurt.”

“Of course sir.” D’Artagnan exhales slowly.

“And when my three best soldiers all come to me separately to argue your case for entering the Musketeers, I must wonder what is so special about you, d’Artagnan?”

He freezes, his chest tight.

“Make me proud, d’Artagnan.”

When he leaves the office, he heads straight to the tavern. He knows they will be there, he has his guards up tight. He pretends he isn’t hurt when Aramis speaks of the woman that haunts Athos. He pretends that he cares at all about Milady, even though it feels wrong to even think of her when they are sitting _right there_. But they can’t know. Even with Constance’s reassurances, he knows that they can’t know.

He can’t think that they’d ever forgive him.

And right now, even if they don’t need him, even if they don’t _want_ him, they are all he has.


	2. Chapter 2

The secret eats away at him. It starts slowly, the way these things do, but before long it cripples him. 

He holds all their happiness in the palm of his hand, the ink that graces his skin, and they in return hold his heart and his life. Hardly a fair trade.

It hurts. It fucking burns him inside out, leaves him hollowed and at their mercy. The jealousy sits right at the centre of his soul as he sees Aramis with woman after woman, as he and Porthos laugh and touch each other so comfortably. It rears its ugly head as he learns of Athos’ wife, the woman that still has him twisted around her finger, the woman who he chose to be with, despite knowing d’Artagnan was out there, his perfect match.

But he is also so very selfish.

It doesn’t take long to understand that whatever name of his they have (or don’t have) imbedded in their skin, it isn’t enough to make the connection. And they could destroy him. So he doesn’t make the first move. How can he? How can he insert himself between them so selfishly and say: _I need you._

So he chooses not to. He tells himself he is making the sacrifice for them, and it’s an easy lie to believe when his past still haunts him.

Constance doesn’t understand. He doesn’t think she evens tries to. Her opinion is clouded by its own jealousy, her husband is not her soulmate. D’Artagnan doesn’t pry, but it’s obvious that her name carries its own set of impossibilities.

He festers.

He does his job, of course. He works himself to the bone to improve, some desperation inside of him to impress them, make them see him. He doesn’t know if it is worse like this, if the knowing is worse than the unknown, but he has dug himself in too deep to tear himself away. He has gone too far.

They are like an addiction, every breath of them dizzying and intense, like sunlight running through his veins. He can’t give them up. He puts everything he has on the line for them, stakes his money and reputation and future on becoming a musketeer for them, bargains his life for theirs.

And it hurts. It is burns and bruises and broken bones, but worst of all it’s the constant ache of heartbreak.

Paris becomes his home. The transition is at first a forced one, it is the only home he has left.

He loses some of himself along with his farm. He loses bits of his past, loses his only income, but the three people closest to him in the world seem not to notice.

They never seem to see _him_. He doesn’t allow them close enough too.

It is hard, to keep the names hidden. The life of a soldier means close quarters and little privacy, but he does the best he can, setting strict boundaries. His shirt rarely leaves his back, he keeps his forearms bound.

It’s months before his secret is discovered. 

It starts with a battle.

” _Aramis_.” D’Artagnan yells and flings his Main Gauche. He sees Aramis duck, then his attention is torn away and his blade clashes with another.

He feels as happy as he has in years, as his rapier slashes at the man’s throat and blood sprays cross his face. He takes a moment, wipes his blade on his breeches, and doesn’t notice that he’s smiling wider.

“Athos.” Porthos calls jovially. “I think we need to have a discussion with the pup about decorum during battle.” He grabs the soldier he’s fighting by the back of the head and slams his face onto his knee.

“I agree.” Aramis chimes in, reloading his flintlock. “It’s poor taste to look that good with blood dripping down your face.”

Athos gives a dry laugh and dispatches his opponent cleanly.

D’Artagnan makes a rude gesture at Aramis and turns to engage the next soldier.

The next thing he knows is pain, warm and radiating down his chest. He presses a hand to his abdomen and it comes away wet and sticky. His heartbeat is roaring in his ears. He barely has the presence of mind to lift his flintlock, clutched in a shaking hand, and pull on the trigger. The man in front of him collapses, a bullet clean through his head. 

The world is spinning a little, fuzzy at the edges, and pain pulses like a second heartbeat in his breast. He takes a moment, tries to catalogue and categorise the agony, but finds himself unable. That’s bad. So he does the only thing he has left to him. He sucks in a deep breath, clenches his teeth and disassociates himself. It’s not that hard anymore, after years of practice, and soon the pain is just a distant hum.

The rest of the men comes fast and thick, barely giving him time to breathe or reload. He’s distantly aware of the Musketeers at the edge of his vision, all engaged in the own battles, and he doesn’t _think_. He parries and slashes, and blood is running down him, staining his shirt deep red.

That can’t be his blood. There’s too much of it.

Before he knows it, suddenly there’s quiet. The silence after a battle is a deadly one, and one he rarely gets a chance to appreciate. But now, there’s no more enemy, there’s no-one to save, no King to please, no court to attend.

Just him and the corpses.

He supposes it says something that he enjoys it.

He’s just pulling his shields down, pulling himself back into the present, when the world starts swaying around him. He puts a hand out, trying to grab a tree trunk to lean against, but misses. He slams heavily into the tree, then starts to giggle madly.

“D’Artagnan.” His name comes from far, far away.

“D’Artagnan?”

“ _D’Artagnan_.”

Then there’s nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

“D’Artagnan.” The worry in his voice is enough to make Aramis’ stomach twist in panicked anticipation and to tear his gaze upward. Athos has gone pale, reaching out to where d’Artagnan is pressed against the trunk of a tree, his shirt stained crimson and dripping. He’s giggling deliriously, and the blood, which before had seemed to give him wild beauty, was now the bright signal of something desperately wrong.

“D’Artagnan?” Porthos says cautiously, then Porthos and Athos are racing towards him, weapons flung to the ground in a flash of steel.

“ _D’Artagnan_.” The word is torn from his lips like a battle cry, like a prayer, like a plea, and he watches, almost in slow motion as d’Artagnan’s eyelids flicker, and he slumps like a marionette with it’s strings cut, his blade slipping from his hand.

Porthos is the first to his side, hands deceptively clumsy, in truth practiced and gentled by care. It’s hard to see the wounds up close, d’Artagnan’s shirt a tattered mess of blood and sweat. Aramis feels the weight of dread in his bones. It must be serious.

Porthos, looks up, face ashen. “There’s multiple wounds, I can’t tell.”

Athos nods, expression grim. “We have to move him, we can’t tend to him here.”

The trek back to their horses feels far too long with d’Artagnan cradled limp between them. Porthos  binds himself to him, d’Artagnan’s head lolling against the bigger man’s back.

The ride to the nearest village must be an eternity, with d’Artagnan’s blood slowly dripping onto the saddle, counting every second. He looks pale and waxen, far from the man he was mere minutes ago.

Athos bullies the innkeeper into his largest room, has bandages and hot water sent up to them, wears a hole in the floor while Aramis tries to tend to d’Artagnan without lifting his shirt. That was clearly defined boundary.

“Just take it off.” Porthos growls, but Aramis knows it’s mostly worry that puts that edge in his voice.

“He was clear…” Aramis replies weakly. Clear was an understatement. He was vehement, defensive any time the subject was brought up. He refused to swim with them, got changed in privacy, never rolled up his sleeves. Aramis was uncertain whether he’d seen any more skin than the man’s hands and face. But now the shirt is in the way, tattered in any case, and the leather bindings are torn and loose around d’Artagnan’s arms. And Aramis _can’t_ see another man die because of him.

"How bad is it?"

"Bad."

"Bullet or blade?"

"Both."

"Aramis..."

"Shut up.” He’d come to a decision, a violation of privacy certainly, but for the alternative being to lose d’Artagnan… “Get his shirt off, I need to check him."

" _Aramis_."

"It could _save his life_."

Then Athos is easing the tattered and blood soaked shirt off d'Artagnan carefully.

Then the shirt is gone, d’Artagnan’s chest bare to the room. Aramis stifles a gasp. Athos goes suddenly still.

“Those aren’t a soldier’s scars.” He says carefully. Anger swells through the room.

Athos doesn’t say a word, his face forcefully blank.

“Turn him over, we need to check whether any of his wounds are internal.” Aramis says, trying to regain his composure. He helps Athos gently turn d’Artagnan over, cradling the boy’s head in one hand.

When Athos sees it he reels backwards and Aramis drops his hands from d’Artagnan like he burns.

“No.” It could have come from either of them.

Athos has a hand pressed to his mouth, knuckles white and his perfectly blue eyes wide. “I…” He can’t seem to find the words.

“It’s him.” Aramis says instead. “ _He’s_ Charles.”

“It’s me?” Athos says softly, and there’s a fragility to his voice that seems foreign.

The question is mostly rhetorical, there’s no denying the words printed dark against d’Artagnan’s skin. Athos’ name is borne across the top of d’Artagnan’s back in thick lettering. Athos doesn’t think his name has ever looked so beautiful.

“It’s you.” Aramis says and his voice is as brittle as glass, and his hand drifts to the small of his back.

Porthos looks away. Athos pretends he can’t see the glisten to his eyes.

The moment lingers bitterly as Aramis continues with his ministrations, heartache printed deep in the lines on his face. Before long d’Artagnan’s torso is bound in bandages, face pale and beaded with sweat, but eyes still undeniably closed and Aramis is grasping a half empty wine bottle with shaking hands.

Porthos has been silent for this time, slumped heavily in his chair, and Athos can’t bring himself to say anything, couldn't possibly think of the words to bridge this chasm between them all. He’d never been good with words anyway.

“Do you remember that day?” Aramis asks slowly into the silence. “The day we knew?”

“Of course.” Athos replies.

It had been early in their friendship, when Aramis was still raw with hurt and broken bodies in the snow, and Athos clung to the scent of forget-me-nots. One of the first missions with just the three of them, alone on the road. There had been something healing in the air that summer, where the light faded late and lingering, and everything had seemed settled right in place. At the end of a long day of riding, sweat staining clothes, they’d stopped in a grove with a pond. They’d stripped gladly, thrown themselves into the clear cold water, and words had spilled with wine into the space between them.

“Do you have a name?” The question was always there, on the tips of tongues. In a world like this, with the certainty of fate and the craving for completion, it was a loaded question. If you didn’t, you were normal, average. Destined for the life of the search for something that could measure up, but never quite reach the divine. If you did, you were blessed, preordained in fate’s web. There was no need to search, everything happened in the right way for the right reason.

“Yes.”

Aramis smirked. “Show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

Porthos laughed uproariously, then ducked his head under water, emerging dripping and grinning. “All right then, lover boy. All at the same time?”

Athos was more reserved, glancing away distantly.

“Come on then, Athos.” Aramis said, and winked, a little too forced to be believable, but the enthusiasm was there. It was cloying addictive trust in the air, the need to divulge, let weight wash from chests like sweat and dirt.

“Fine.” Athos said, but smiled willingly.

“I’ll go first then.” Porthos conceded. “If it’ll make it easier.” There’s a teasing tone to his voice that broke whatever tension remained between them. 

He pulled his left arm out the water, and flexed it smugly. It took Athos a moment to read the words wrapped around his bicep, the skin glistening with water. When he managed to make them out, it’s like something clicked, fell into place so neatly it was a relief.

“Charles d’Artagnan.” The words were so natural on his lips, worn soft with use.

Aramis choked out a laugh, while Porthos looked between them curiously.

“What am I missing?” He asked good-naturedly.

Aramis turned around and pulled himself out of the water, and that’s when Athos saw them, printed neat across the base of his spine.

“Charles d’Artagnan.” Porthos said it this time, and it’s the knife edge between shock and awe. He turned to Athos. “Don’t tell me…”

Athos levered himself out of the water and stood dripping under the assessing gaze of the men with whom his fate was bound. Their eyes scraped along the words that ran along the line of his ribs, dark against the pale of his skin.

“What are the odds?” Aramis said finally, a little breathlessly, and Athos could hear every question between the words.

“I’ve never heard of something like this before.” Athos replied. He grabbed his shirt and tugged it on, the fabric clinging to his wet body.

“Whoever he is, he must be remarkable.” Porthos laughed a little and tousled his hair.

“Whoever he has…” Athos started hesitantly. “I don’t want him to come between us.”

“We don’t know if there’ll be an us to come between.”

“We’re bound in fate, Porthos.” Aramis said. “I’m not sure we get a choice.”

Now, years later, with the young man lying pale on the bed between them, Athos is uncertain that is a promise he can keep.

“You said we were bound in fate.” Porthos says quietly. “Who knew that you were right all along.”

Aramis laughs bitterly. “Who knew.”

D’Artagnan shifts on the bed, a moan leaking from his barely parted lips, and one of his arms slips off the bed. Aramis watches sluggishly as the leather bindings loosen and unravel, pooling on the floor.

He gets up uncomprehendingly to tend to the younger man, and it’s as he’s tucking his arm back by his side that he notices the suddenly bare skin of d’Artagnan’s forearm.

“It’s not possible.” He says slowly, and Porthos looks up. “That’s not—“ He has to stop himself from tightening his grip, but it’s right there, clear as day.

Porthos comes up behind him. “What’s…” He trails off as he follows Aramis’ gaze. His silence is like a blow to Aramis’ chest. “It’s me too.”

Athos half rises out of his chair. “Aramis?” He says disbelievingly, then in another moment of pure clarity they simultaneously look to d’Artagnan’s other arm, still lying bound across his chest.

“We can’t.” Athos says automatically, but Porthos has silent, joyful tears welling in his eyes and by _God_ they all want to be selfish now.

“This isn’t our choice to make.” Aramis says, unconvincingly, even as everything in him is breaking.

“What are the odds?” Athos whispers, soft and reminding.

Aramis’ hands tremor as he undoes the binding, still and shellshocked as the words are revealed.

“It’s us.”

“All of us.”

“We have _him_.”

"It's not possible." Aramis says again.

"How could 'e not tell us?"

"How did we not figure it out?"

"We 'ave 'is bloody name etched into our skin." Porthos growls and slams his fist against the wall, joy suddenly soured to anger.

"He never told us his first name, we couldn't just presume." Aramis reasons softly, his rosary slipping through his fingers, lips tight.

"It's not possible." Athos enunciates fiercely. "It's a mistake."

" _Look at him_." Aramis is clearly distraught, his defences in tatters around him, eyes glittering furiously.

This is supposed to be the best day of his life, he's finally with the person that he's meant to spend the rest of his life next to. So why does he feel anything but happy? Why does he feel sick with betrayal, dizzy with _want_ , aching with guilt and worry?

" _Of course_ it's him. Of course it's _him_." Aramis looks up, over to d'Artagnan's pale, prone body.

"Why didn't 'e tell us?" Porthos voices the question they're all thinking. 

"Maybe he doesn't trust us?" Aramis suggests hollowly. "Maybe he doesn't want us?"

"Then why is he still here?" Athos murmurs. "If he doesn't want us, why is he still here?"

The other two look at him and the tension in the room slips. Aramis huffs out a heavy breath. "Right now, we need to keep him alive, get him to wake up. Once that's certain, then we can talk about this."

"Not a word." Athos get slowly to his feet. "Whatever the reason he hasn't told us, whatever he's hiding, it's bad. We can't make it worse."

"We can't leave 'im." Porthos adds quietly. "He needs us."

Athos looks between his brothers. They are all so far gone. They aren't coming back after this. He _knows_ that he will never be the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here is a couple of chapters. I posted them quickly so I wouldn't overthink it (because that is something I'm prone to), but I'm not sure if they will stay up. All mistakes are my own. Let me know what you think.


	4. Chapter 4

****It’s another day before d’Artagnan wakes.

He does it slowly, eyes fluttering open and wide, a groan slipping from his parted lips as his wounds protest.

His thoughts are clouded with pain, dusty from disuse.

“D’Artagnan?” His name on an odd tongue.

He tries to right himself slowly, panting with the effort of it. His head spins, room wobbly.

“Hey, hey. Easy there.” A different voice this time, and a hand that lightly touches his arm.

He jerks away, away from the foreign touch, and spots of darkness crowd his vision. He grabs the edge of the bed, digs his fingers into the mattress. Air forces its way in and out of his body, uncontrollable as he can’t discern which way gravity pulls him. _In out_.

“D’Artagnan. Take it slow.”

“Who—“ He curses as the air gets stolen from his lungs.

“Breathe. Focus on your breath.”

Slowly his heartbeat steadies and his vision clears, as he waits. When he can finally move again, when he can feel the tugging of the earth beneath him again, he lets his grip relax. 

The room is quiet as he looks up to make out the shapes of Athos, Aramis and Porthos gathered around his bed. They’re framed in early morning light, sharp and clear.

And there is something wrong on their faces.

Something’s wrong.

He reaches for his forearms, to clutch the soothing leather bindings. His fingers trace bared scars, the cool morning air traces his bared chest. _Something’s wrong_.

The cry is torn out of him viciously, unearthly and gut-wrenching. Beyond words, all that’s left is pulsing terror. He scrambles up, pulling the blanket over him, shoving himself off the bed. The wall slams against his back as his knees buckle.

“ _D’Artagnan_.” 

The three of them start towards him, and he cringes back, flinging an arm out. “Stay _away_.”

“Easy, pup.” Porthos murmurs, and he seems to make himself smaller, like he’s addressing a child or a small animal. 

“I’m so sorry.” D’Artagnan is muttering, the words falling from him without his volition. “ _Stay away, I’m sorry_.”

“Tell us what’s wrong, pup. We’re not going to hurt you.”

“You know.” He says, and he hates how weak he sounds, trembling against the wall. “And I’m not ready to let you go.”

The world goes dark.

The next time he opens his eyes, the room is lit by the glow of a candle. His breath stays even as he rights himself. There’s a heaviness, deep in his bones, something like dread, but the panic stays contained.

He can see the shapes of the other men, tangled and sprawled on a mattress against the far wall.

 _I have to go_.

It would be easier that way, to leave now before the sun has a chance to rise, and he has to hear them speak damning words on loved lips. He can’t hear them say it. Better to leave. Better to take what he has and take his chances against the world again, rebuild from the bottom up, and as far away as he can. He can’t do this again. 

Aramis stirs grumpily, but settles back into sleep.

They must be exhausted, it was so rare they slept without a guard. How long had they waited by his bedside for him to wake? Or did they just not care if he fled? Perhaps this was an invitation, _go now before we have to turn you in. Before we have to face you._

His mind is racing and irrational, he knows, but with the darkness so tight around him, and with his carefully constructed safety in rubble, he can’t help the urge to run.

Slowly, he pushes himself up until he’s standing, still a little wobbly on his feet. Bandages smother his torso. He pulls his jerkin on stiffly. It’s bloodstained and torn, but better than the alternative. His boots are flung on the other side of the room, his belt and weapons slung over the chair. Slowly he gathers the pieces of himself from across the room. He tries to hold himself together.

He manages to get out of the room without waking the others, moving quietly down the stairs and finding his way to the stables. His mare greets him with a soft whicker, pushing her nose against him.

“S’okay darlin’.” He whispers to her. “It’ll be okay.”

Saddling his horse tears something in his side, flooding him with pain, but he carefully persists until he is astride her, with fresh blood staining his bandages and heartache staining his bones.

He doesn’t look back as he lets her trot slowly out of town. He doesn’t look back to see what he’s leaving behind. They break into a light canter just past the outskirts of the village, and slowly and surely it recedes behind them. By the time morning light breaks, d’Artagnan is panting with the pain, skin glossy with sweat.

“Enough. Enough. Woah girl.” He pulls on the reins and the horse huffs and paces to a stop. He ungracefully dismounts and leads her deeper into the forest, off the path, tying the mare to a tree.

He curls himself into a ball at the base of the tree, and he lets the pain roll away, the panic roll away, let everything disappear behind closed eyelids. He wills himself to sleep.


End file.
